Welcome to Marlinspike Hall, ancestral home of the Haddock Clan, the creation of Belgian cartoonist Hergé.
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Tuesday, July 24, 2012

"Guess you better slow that Mustang down..."

My fever reached such a pitch that I found myself babbling to Dobby -- as, once again, Dobby was the only living entity williing (even eager, sweet thing) to be with me as I crossed the 102 degree mark.

He likes to hear the story of his birth as I brush his belly. Don't even try to leave out a part, or his tail starts twitching and he glares. Should you try to skip over the part where Marmy went to sleep with Dobby only maybe an eighth born, Dobby might gently scratch you or gnaw on your nearest part, in my case, a juicy thumb. If you attempt to gloss over his inability to find teat, much less mother's milk, and his early propensity for climbing Marmy in lieu of using her for sustenance, not even a dose of nip will save you.

It was Tuesday, today, infectious disease doods and doodettes day, and I dislike them. The day, not the doods. The Tuesdays.

I saw the head honcho ID dood, and that apparently made me forget every question or thing I wished to discuss. For his part, he had prepared by reviewing all the blood cultures but not the regular lab work. It wasn't until I got shuffled back to the Infusion Center, where the nurse was giving an inspired rendition of her favorite Zumba workout routine, that I ogled and "oh no-ed" over last week's labs. She's entertained her captive audience of infected persons, tied to tubing and cuffs, beeping things, before, and usually I don't mind, but today... my head hurt, and my PICC line would not give up any blood, so I was having to sit and wait for this magic roto-rooter stuff to clear the clog. Meaning more shaking, jostling booty Zumba dancing for me.

I first met her last fall, and we went through the whole CRPS explanation and the shoulder situation, and still, today, she likes to punctuate her Zumba Joy by gifting me with little slaps on my left shoulder. When I ask her to please not touch me, she gives a Zumba Joy Impish Grin and cries, "Why, I guess it's just the nurse in me!" (The desire to touch?)

I should probably call it the body-part-formerly-known-as-shoulder.

Whatever, she is a good nurse but I think something she did today may have triggered this spike. I think we need to pull this damn PICC line out because it may be the source of the new infection. After she gave me the clot-busting medicine and so was able to draw labs, I started getting chills, and by the time we got home, I was downright lousy.

Is it crazy to think the PICC line might be infected, even though they've added cefepime? Two Tuesdays ago, when I got tossed back into Hospital Hilton, I spiked within an hour after doing an infusion.

Okay, I don't have a medical degree, and I know that what looks like cause and effect to a non-sect member makes real medicos chuckle in the dark of night, but come on!

I broke the rules [SURPRISE!] when Tylenol did its usual nothing and dug out my beloved ibuprofen. I took 600 mg and if I could cross my fingers, oh, sistren and brethren, they'd be so freaking crossed!

I had promised Fred a special tilapia hash stuffed poblano pepper dinner but as he curled up into a blessed nap and I fainted getting out of the wheelchair into bed -- it's San Miguel beer and greek yogurt for everyone!

Feel free to join us. Dobby's all a-flutter, as he finds poblano peppers pretty tame as far as peppers go, but the dear boy is a yogurt maniac.

When things occasionally really sucked in my life, my Dad used to make me repeat after him that "the sun is still going to come up tomorrow." How is that comfort, when the evidence screams that tomorrow will be very much like today?

Zumba Nurse was trying, for some reason, to play me her ringtone as I was caterwall-wheeling my way out of the infusion center. "Mustang Sally."

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ABOUT THIS BLOG

I am a retired French prof -- retired due to disablity, not age, and certainly not by choice. Teaching was my raison d'être. My world becomes more confined and defined with each passing day.

I hope that this blog, by its general silliness, alone, will prove a defense against the painful pressure of such implosions.

My interests are legion, but ultimately ego-driven, as will soon be embarrassingly evident. One of the more arcane? A love for the works of Georges Prosper Remi -- best known as Hergé. If you've forgotten the gist of Hergé's work, HERE is a list of characters and adventures to consult. How we wish, sometimes, that we had been in Hergé's Head (la Tête de Hergé), back in the heyday of Tintin, Snowy, Professor Calculus, Thomson and Thompson (Dupont et Dupond), and all the gang.

Still, it is a childhood dream come true to be living in Captain Haddock's ancestral manor, Marlinspike Hall, with my partner Fred, La Bonne et Belle Operatic Diva, Bianca Castafiore, our pets, and a devoted Domestic Staff. Bianca and I can be so much alike, at times, in ways both endearing and alienating, that you'll wonder "Who is whom?" While she has titular control of elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle, I do most of the writing. If you would like to locate us on a map, it's easy: we are about a two hour drive west of the Lone Alp. Or you can use MapQuest.

Of course, even as the Milanese Nightingale regales us with longwinded tales of escapes from General Tapioca and poorly prepared pasta, saved by her beloved Captain and Tintin, even as she serenades us with that interminable Air des bijoux -- the threat of eviction looms over our heads, for we are neither manor born nor manor bred.

To stay in Captain Haddock's good graces and earn our keep, we strive to keep The Manor in tiptop shape, to keep the adventures to a minimum, and to be good neighbors to The Cistercians living just down the road, here in beautiful, magical Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs). You never know when The Captain might suddenly return from some mysterious nautical journey! The Castafiore trills merely at the thought; Fred, on the other hand, worries about the algae outbreak in the Moat, where our benefactor moors his mini-submarine fleet.

En tout cas...

Let me explain, at least, my blog title, Dear Reader:

Some years back, one early morning in Paris, bleary-eyed from a long flight, with hours yet to wait before I could check-in to my hotel (and perilously little money in my pocket), I stood perched against a stone wall overlooking the Seine.